


Those Who Cried, Those Who Hide, Those Who Died, and the One Who Survived

by stele3



Category: Touching Evil (US)
Genre: Christmas, Depression, Family, Friendship, Gen, Mentions of miscarriage, Mentions of past suicide, Not the way you think, Partnership, Roofies, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Creegan is struggling with being separated from his daughters. Branca helps in the way you least expect. Or, 'why Susan Branca is better than everyone.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Those Who Cried...

**Chapter 1: Those Who Cried…**  
  
 _7 months, 15 days…_  
  
Creegan watched his fingers twitching across the knee of his jeans. Long murderous fingers, pinching folds of fabric, picking and twisting. Bing Crosby's smug voice came on the radio, singing something nauseating about what a wonderful time Bing and all his smug friends were having. Christmastime in California always bothered him. It didn't feel real, as if the whole state was locked in a little globe of springtime. Once, back in college, he'd skipped out on Christmas Eve dinner and dodged down to LA with some frat brothers, chugging beers and singing lewd versions of carols. Through the drunken haze he remembered looking up at a palm tree covered in multicolored lights. It seemed terribly wrong, somehow. Christmas lights should reflect off glistening snow, guiding a cold traveler home to warm fudge and too much wine. They should not hang limply off an apartment's balcony in sixty degree weather.   
  
At least San Francisco had the decency to rain.  
  
 _7 months, 15 days._  
  
"Bing. Bing. Bing?" he asked.  
  
Branca looked over at him, startled. "What?"  
  
"Bing Crosby. Bing. That's the sound your computer makes just before it eats your work and makes you leap screaming out of your office window. Who would name their son Bing?"  
  
She pushed her hair distractedly back from her eyes. She'd done that twice already since they'd left the OSC. "Bing is derived from Bingham. It's Germanic."  
  
Creegan stared at her in disgust. "That," he said heavily, "was a rhetorical question. And shouldn't you be clogging your perfectly functional brain with more important things than obscure baby names?"  
  
Lightning-fast darkness crossed over her features. He saw it and turned away instantly. Like all other faces, shadows came to hers, then sped away to unknown destinations beneath the skin. He'd learned to look elsewhere before they pulled his mind within her, to the secret places where criminals hid their sins.  
  
If Susan Branca had sins living among her shadows, he did not want to know them.  
  
"So what are your plans for Christmas?" she asked suddenly.  
  
 _7 months, 15 days._ "I'm surprised at you, Agent Branca. That's quite a culturally and politically insensitive question. First, it presupposes that I am one of the eighty-three percent of Americans who identify as Christian, a statistical probability, yes, but an unfortunate one. I might be a Buddhist, or a Muslim, or one of those people who drink their own urine. You might have just deeply insulted my religious beliefs. Second, it subtly indicates that I should have plans on Christmas, a truly cruel discrimination against individuals who might choose to spend their holidays in quiet, solitary reflection instead of inflicting upon themselves the gaudy trappings and heightened commercialism of a Christian birthday party gone mad. Very insensitive, Agent Branca, I am disappointed in you."  
  
A pause. Then, she said in the same voice, "So what are your plans for Christmas?"  
  
"Order pizza, get blindingly drunk, and sit around in my underwear crying," he replied instantly. "Care to join me? If you ask very nicely, I might even put on pants for the crying part."  
  
He expected that to earn him a Look, but instead she pushed at her hair. There it was again: the Hair Push. It tugged at him just like the shadows. She was nervous about something, uneasy, she was asking him about Christmas plans, a mention of baby names troubled her…  
  
Creegan yanked his gaze around to the windshield and took a mental baseball bat to his forehead. _Stop that._ Bing Crosby and his unbearably smug friends were launching into the final chorus, and he added his flat baritone howl to the mix. "Iiii'm drea-ming of a whiiite Chist-mas…"  
  
Branca flipped the radio off with a grimace. It didn't matter; the moment was gone and her secrets were safe once more. The light in front of them turned yellow and she tapped the brakes courteously. A tacit agreement between them dictated she would always drive at night. The glare of stoplights in the darkness punctured Creegan's brain, whipping through the damaged fissures and spitting out incorrect instructions to his right foot. It had only happened a few times, without major casualties, but unfortunately she had been with him for the last one. Two tire-squealing blocks later, he had pulled over to the side of the road, hands gripping the steering wheel. She had seemed quite calm, however, as she reached across, took the keys out of the ignition, got out of the car, walked around to his side, and opened the door. No outbursts. No lectures. He had been grateful enough for the silence that he'd scrambled awkwardly – briefly taking a gear shift in the ass – over to the passenger seat without argument. He'd been there ever since.  
  
"Reach under your seat."  
  
It was his turn to give her a startled look. She nudged him along with a jerk of her chin, and a faint smile twitched about her mouth. The smile fascinated him, as it always had. On that first plane ride so long ago – _Jesus, only nine months?_ – her lips had bent upward almost unwillingly, and mentally he could hear the creak of unused muscles. But she'd managed it somehow, and for a moment the obviously unfamiliar expression of mirth froze him, tipped him headlong into those quiet, sad little places of her mind where gravestones lived. Then he'd instinctively snatched her goldfish crackers – gold _whales_ – and started flinging them at his face.  
  
She had smiled for him, when most other people (doctors, Enright, the OSC review board) were staunchly sober. And he doubted whether she smiled for anyone else.   
  
He was not about to disturb the ghosts she carried within and drive her away with their reawakened pain.  
  
"Creegan?" she queried. He was staring at the left corner of her mouth, where the Smiles started. Without raising his gaze to her puzzled eyes, he bent double and reached under the seat, banging his head on the dashboard in the process. "Ow," he said without any real conviction as his fingers closed around smooth plastic.   
  
"You okay?" Branca asked quickly.  
  
"Yeah, sure. After a bullet, all other head injuries seemed blasé." Sitting back, he examined his prize. It was a small gray thermos. "What's this?" he asked, waving it in her direction.  
  
"Your Christmas present," she said, her eyes on the road. "It's not urine, but it's the best eggnog on the West Coast. Merry Christmas."  
  
She pushed at her hair again.  
  
There really was something quite wrong with this. She was nervous: it could be written off to holiday-related stress, but somehow he didn't think Susan Branca would tolerate the presence of such a pedestrian ailment. No, this was another matter entirely. She asked him about Christmas plans and produced this peculiar gift then she pushed at her hair. He knew enough of her ticks to hear alarm bells, and was opening his mouth to speak when he glanced through the windshield and saw them.  
  
There were four of them altogether, a couple and their two young children, hurrying across the sidewalk directly in front of him. They were dressed elegantly, obviously having just emerged from a dinner with the relatives. The father had taken off his overcoat and was holding it above him awkwardly with one arm, trying to act as a living umbrella for his wife. Under the other arm was tucked a large box still covered in wrapping paper. The mother was carrying their newborn cradled against her chest, hunched slightly against the rain. Both their faces reflected the same intense concentration, the homeward battle against the elements on a drizzly Christmas Eve. The older child, probably four years old, outran his mother's reaching arm to the other side of the street and was looking back at them impatiently, oblivious to the light rain in his blue raincoat and hood. His only concern was the red package zipped into the front of his jacket whose oversized corners emerged at his collar and waistcoat, giving him the appearance of a tumor-ridden miniature Santa Claus.  
  
Creegan ripped off the thermos' lid, flipped up the drinking tube, and chugged straight from the bottle. He kept his head tipped back until the car moved again, then dropped the container into his lap, swiping awkwardly at a bit of eggnog trickling down his jaw.   
  
He closed his eyes again and bowed his head.  
  
 _7 months, 16 days._  
  
226 days total. He'd hugged them both, studying their open eyes with ferocity born of desperation, and then shut the SUV door.  
  
His girls. Samantha and Lily. Two pairs of eyes, watching him step back and close the door.  
  
 _God. God. God._  
  
 _Sex_ , he thought desperately. _Iraq_ _. Those little sushi rolls with the fake crab meat. What the hell do they make that fake crab meat out of, anyway?_  
  
Two pairs of eyes.   
  
_Sex in a sushi bar… in_ _Iraq_ _with bombs dropping overhead and some strange woman in crotchless panties and the national anthem being sung in the background over loudspeakers._  
  
No good. They were still there, pasted to the inside of his eyelids. He reached out blindly and turned the radio up. Good old Bing punched into the car, drawling about chestnuts. Creegan cursed him, cursed the holiday, the season, the perfect little family, everything. Then he realized that he was speaking out loud, and shut his mouth so tightly he bit his own tongue and tasted blood.  
  
A few minutes later he reached out and carefully switched the radio off.  
  
After Bing's ear-splitting rendition, the silence in the car felt claustrophobic. Creegan stretched it as long as he dared, feeling the drink curl into a warm ball in his stomach, patting his innards kindly. He took another swig, staring out the window.  
  
"Good eggnog," he commented without looking.  
  
"Best on the West Coast."  
  
He turned, lips parted and eyes narrowed. But she only smiled slightly and continued driving. No Hair Push, nothing. Her nervousness had evaporated so completely, maybe he had imagined it. She'd seen the family too, obviously, but… His brain couldn't connect the two. A quick shake did not clear the fog. Small blonde heads danced before his vision and he swallowed more eggnog. It slithered cheerfully down his throat. Branca glanced quickly over at him, her brow delicately concerned instead of anxious, but she said nothing.  
  
"So," he said after a few minutes. His voice seemed muffled, somehow. "So," he said, louder, "what are your plans for Christmas, Ms. White Anglo-Saxon Christian Ethnocentrist?"  
  
Branca hesitated a moment before sighing. "I'm working on some plans. I'm not sure how exactly they're going to work out, but I think I'll do some traveling."  
  
His lips were numb. He smacked them together loudly, in the same way a drunk stands on one foot to prove that he isn't drunk. How much rum was there in that eggnog? "Someplace with lots of snow. And Christmas lights. You can't have Christmas lights without snow, you know." He grinned suddenly. "Hey. That rhymed. I'm a genius."  
  
Blurry movement at his left indicated another glance in his direction. "No, you can't."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I was agreeing with you. You can't have Christmas lights without snow."  
  
"Damn right." Creegan nodded righteously and immediately regretted it. The world seemed to dip low, pitched by the movement of his head. He straightened and blinked his eyes. Little tendrils of gray snaked onto the edges of his vision. He watched them coming with confusion, so distracted by their movement that he didn't notice the car had stopped moving until Branca reached over and gently took the thermos out of his hand, replacing the lid and stowing it under her own seat.  
  
"Hey," he muttered blearily. "I wasn't done with that."  
  
"Yes you were."  
  
He frowned in her direction. She was sitting in an odd way, twisted in her seat so that her back was to the driver's side door and she was facing him fully. Her arms were folded in her lap and her face was utterly expressionless, except for pale blue eyes which watched him closely. Waiting. Beyond her dark blonde head, the street was empty. That made him blink, casting about in all directions. This wasn't his motel. Nor was it the parking lot of her apartment.  
  
"I don't," he started to say, then stopped as a wave of dizziness hit him. I know this feeling! he thought fiercely. I've felt this before! "I don't feel very well," he managed to mutter, his eyes squeezed shut.  
  
"Probably not," Branca responded quietly. "I put a roofie in the eggnog."  
  
Blink.  
  
"What?"  
  
"A roofie. A knockout drug, Creegan. I put a roofie in the eggnog."  
  
Blink.  
  
"What?"  
  
She sighed and shifted in her seat. "Don't worry. I'm told you'll wake up with a bit of a hangover, but the chances of any lasting effects are slim to none. Relax, Creegan. Don't try to fight it."  
  
He was fighting it. He was struggling like Hell to keep his head up, swaying back and forth against sleep.  
  
"Are you going to rape me?" he whimpered, slumping against the shoulder harness.  
  
Distantly he heard her laughter and the tinkle of keys as she turned the ignition back on. "The thought had occurred to me. Go to sleep, Creegan."  
  
And then the world went black.


	2. ...Those Who Hide...

**Chapter 2: …Those Who Hide…**  
  
Creegan remembered, finally. The dizziness; the closing gray threads of unconsciousness; and a tingling in his lips. They'd wrapped their suffocating limbs around him before – when? A tear-streaked face swam before him, wailing about her mommy issues and miscarriages. The pyromaniac. She'd drugged him – he'd drugged himself – then lit him on fire. The thought made him sit forward, reaching for his legs to quench any flames. The treacherous dashboard reared up and smacked him on the head again. He was still sitting in the car, and while there were no gasoline-drenched clothes or psychotic pregnant women lurking outside his door, there was also no Branca.  
  
She hadn't lied: his head hurt, and from more than being hit repeatedly on a dashboard. Creegan rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes sockets, vainly trying to massage the dull ache lurking behind the orbs as his reluctant brain came awake. His neck ached, too, from stretching at an angle underneath his drooping head for so long.   
  
_Branca. A roofie in the eggnog. What was that for?  
  
And why do women always feel the need to drug me?_  
  
He was in a small, tidy residential garage. Rakes, brooms, and other minor implements lay in neat lines along the walls, illuminated by soft yellow lighting from above. There were no windows, but even inside the car he felt a draft of cold air, and his nose when he touched it was freezing. Directly outside his side of the car, a small step led up into a doorway. Taped to the door was a small piece of paper.  
  
There were no keys in the ignition. He couldn't see any way to open the garage door, no clicker thingy – _what kind of messed up people don't have a garage door clicker thingy?_ – and no doors to the outside. And Branca had driven him here. Creegan considered that for a long moment, then reached up under his jacket and touched his gun holster. His sidearm was there.  
  
 _Well,_ he thought, struggling to shake off the last remnants of drowsy confusion, _either you're waiting inside with a group of Thai sex traders or you've shanghaied me to your family's Christmas party.  
  
Either way, there may be bullets involved._  
  
He got out of the car, and hesitated as the cold hit him fully. _Toto, I don't think we're in_ _California_ _anymore._ Stepping up to the narrow white entrance, he reached out and peeled the small note off the door.  
  
\- Creegan   
Don't enter with your weapon drawn, it's all right. Don't try to go outside. Don't ask too many questions. Come in.  
Branca -  
  
Short and officious. If it had been on letterhead he might have called it a memo. He crumpled up the hand-written message, thinking wildly. But there were still no other doorways, no windows, and no clicker thingy. So he reached out, twisted the doorknob, and stepped inside.  
  
Branca sat at the kitchen table with a coffee mug, wearing jeans and a thick red sweater. There were green and golden ribbons in her hair, which was loose and falling around her tired face.  
  
"Good morning," she said instantly. "Would you like some coffee or hot chocolate?"  
  
He stood in the door, staring at her incredulously. "No Thai sex traders?'  
  
She cocked an eyebrow. "No."  
  
A quick glance around the room confirmed the absence of taser-wielding fiends. The kitchen was simultaneously cheery and sterile, a spotless mosaic of light blue tiles and wood cabinets. Glorious smells permeated his nose, emanating both from the oven at his right and the stovetop behind Branca, where various pots and pans simmered away. Despite their presence, however, the room gave a distinct impression of emptiness. There were no magnets on the refrigerator, no calendars on the walls. Two swinging doors led into other parts of the house, and he eyed them – _can't trust doors without doorknobs, they hit me in the ass_. Along the far wall there were several heavily curtained windows, shades drawn.  
  
"Close the door, Creegan." Branca's voice drew his attention. She was leaning back in her wooden chair, arms folded and head bent to one side. The ribbons fell across her cheek, but she did not push them back. "You're letting in cold air."  
  
After a moment he did as he was told, and took a few uncertain steps into the house, watching Branca through narrowed eyes. She looked back with that same expressionless face.  
  
Waiting.  
  
"All right," he said finally. "I'll bite. Where are we?"  
  
"No," she said, and stood up, coming around the table to halt in front of him. "That is the number one question that you are not allowed to ask."   
  
A smell hit him. Cinnamon. She'd been cooking… or maybe she had sprinkled cinnamon on herself for flavoring purposes. _That's an interesting thought._ He looked down at her, fiercely aware his brain was still slightly befuddled, and realized suddenly that she was wearing a red apron decorated with holly.  
  
He couldn't help it. In a strange house, in a strange, cold place – _the North Pole_? – facing a woman who had admitted to drugging him with eggnog, he burst out laughing.  
  
"What?" she asked, her cool control gone instantly.  
  
"You're wearing an apron." He flapped his hands at her in helpless astonishment. From the ribbons to the sweater to the apron, the effect was flawless. "You're Mrs. Claus, aren't you? That's what the secret is. You've smuggled me into Santa's Bat Cave in the North Pole."  
  
She glanced down and back up swiftly, exasperated. "I've been cooking, Creegan. People wear aprons when they cook."  
  
"Oh, that's what it is. I thought maybe you'd been rolling in cinnamon to make yourself taste better."  
  
She blushed, to his surprise, and stepped away back around the table, brushing at her hair. That was interesting, too. He gave his brain another whack with the invisible baseball bat. _Stop that. Stop it at once._  
  
"Where are we?" he asked again, more sharply than before. "Why did you drug me?"  
  
"They were cute, weren't they?" Branca turned. The blush was gone: she was controlled again. "The family on the crosswalk? You saw them."  
  
It took him a moment. "Yeah," he said slowly, staring at her incredulously, "they were abso-fucking adorable. What the fuck is going on?"  
  
A door closed in another part of the house. Creegan twitched in response, listening. Branca did not react. Still gazing at his face, she said evenly, "You saw them. And then you screamed curse words for the next five minutes. It's a damn good thing the windows were rolled up, wasn't it? But hey, you've got no shame, you wouldn't have cared if they heard you, would you? You wouldn't have cared if the whole damn world heard you shouting how empty your life was. It wouldn't have bothered you if everyone alive looked straight through your skin into the deepest, darkest hole of grief."  
  
An odd, heavy feeling of unaccountable dread turned in his stomach. "I was wrong, you're the poetic one. If you don't tell me in two seconds what's going on, I'm gonna hotwire the car and drive it through – "  
  
 _"Did it ever fucking occur to you,"_ she spat suddenly, _"that it might bother me?"_  
  
The heat in her voice startled them both. It sprang out into the air between their bodies and pushed them backwards. He sucked delicious-smelling air into his lungs – _don't don't don't hurt her_ – preparing to lob his own ball of venom. _Don't._  
  
And then one of the treacherous doors swung and his ex-wife walked into the kitchen.  
  
Breath left him. Creegan stared at her, beyond thought or respiration.  
  
She stopped instantly, sensing the crackling air, and her bright blue eyes locked with his. Her face was slimmer, and instead of long platinum blonde hair, short brunette locks were pulled back by barrettes. But they were the same eyes, filled with the same apprehension, and every ounce of her anxiety – _did you always look at me like that?_ – fell on the same object, him.  
  
 _Holly_.  
  
He took two staggering steps backwards.  
  
"David."  
  
The doorknob was under his hand, clenched tight in white-knuckled fingers. It wasn't Holly speaking; she was still gazing at him in uncertain tension. It was Branca saying his name. The world was a teetering pinnacle of crushed lungs and panicked adrenaline, but he looked back across the suddenly huge expanse of the kitchen table. The apron came off and rested on a kitchen countertop, and she squared her shoulders like a boxer – _flight or fight._  
  
She spoke, but not to him. "Are they awake?"  
  
"Yes," Holly responded eventually. "They're brushing their teeth."  
  
A single rush of air went into his lungs, and back out again. Holly looked at him sharply, her mouth opening.  
  
"Holly," Branca said quickly and quietly. "I think the pancakes need turning." Her gaze on Creegan was as steady as her voice. In the rotating universe, she was still and calm. After a bare moment of defiant hesitation, Holly moved silently to the stovetop, and Branca spared her a quick smile as she passed. It was not quite a friendly smile, but it was a familiar one.  
  
Creegan stood rigid with his back to the door, feeling his body shake. From across the room there came the repeated _swish – splat – hiss_ of pancakes being expertly flipped.  
  
"The first thing you need to know is," Branca said, her voice mingling with the sounds of Holly's cooking, "this is not their home. It's a rental; Holly and I both chipped in. They don't live anywhere near this area, or even this state. Still, we think it best that you don't know where we are. Holly and I have gone over the entire house: all the television reception, radios, and telephones are disabled. There are no newspapers, magazines, mail, or anything else which might indicate our present location. The windows and doors are all closed. The girls have been told that you were coming, and they know not to tell you where their real house is or any other pertinent details. Holly," she gestured behind her, "will be there to make sure they don't. And the rest is up to you." She folded her arms and regarded him with an inscrutable face. "If you do go back outside and try to drive the car through the garage door, there's nothing we can really do to stop you. Of course, then Samantha and Lily will never be able to give you their Christmas presents, and it would be a shame to disappoint them, wouldn't it?"  
  
Silence fell, in which the only sounds were the soft _plops_ of numerous pancakes being shoveled onto plates. Somewhere beyond the kitchen, a door shut again. The sound passed through his entire body in a shudder.   
  
Creegan licked his dry lips. "How long have you been planning this?"  
  
Branca sketched an elegant shrug. "A while now. Are you going to come in and eat breakfast with your children on Christmas Day, or shall I give you another roofie and hide you in the trunk of the car? We'll have to hurry, I think they're coming downstairs."  
  
"Goddamn you."  
  
"Goddamn _you_ , Creegan," she snapped, but this time her voice was ice. "If you're stupid enough to waste this, then you didn't deserve it in the first place _. Now are you going to see your own goddamn children or not?"_  
  
There was the clatter of plates, and then Holly was standing next to Branca. _Blonde and brunette._  
  
"Please stay, David," Holly said. "They want you here. They miss you. Please."  
  
There was no uncertainty in her voice.  
  
Creegan's fingers loosened one by one, and finally his hand dropped from the doorknob.

  
The pitter patter of little feet echoed from the hallway. Holly quickly swiped at her eyes, glancing at him nervously. Branca stepped towards him. Neither was making any effort to intercept the approaching lightning bolt. They were, in fact, strapping him to a metal plate and shoving him into the thunderstorm. _Jesus, not yet, not yet, I'm not ready, I haven't shaved, I look like hell, I haven't got any presents, I haven't got anything for them at all…_  
  
Branca's voice came from beside him, low and fast. "I bought you their presents. They're behind you on the floor by the doorway. There's a Snow-cone maker kit for Lily and a 3-D Jungle Marble Maze for Samantha."  
  
Then the door swung open, propped by four small hands, and Branca _– everything else –_ disappeared as pajama-clad feet pounded across the room into his arms.


	3. ...Those Who Died...

**Chapter 3: …Those Who Died…**  
  
During the pancakes and stockings, presents (all assembly required), warm fudge, Christmas cartoons, turkey and mashed potatoes, and the consumption of unholy amounts of other forms of sugar, Branca moved along the edges. From a respectable distance, she took part and was separate, an accomplice and an impartial observer. He noted her presence at regular intervals, continually relieved and startled to find her there; sitting at the other end of the table, collecting wrapping paper left in scraps by small, eager hands. And every time, when Samantha's laughter or Lily's head on his shoulder brought a bottomless swell of emotion sure to crush him beneath its weight, Branca's eyes seemed to draw his. She never spoke, only considered him a moment, then nodded very slightly. And then the moment would pass and Lily or Samantha would pull his attention away to something new.  
  
They had grown in seven months. Both had had birthdays, and Samantha possessed an increasing, unmistakable confidence in the movement of her own body. "A natural athlete," Holly announced happily, and Samantha kicked a puffy soccer ball across the room into the kitchen. Lily was more sedentary, preferring to curl her fingers in the front of his shirt and babble about all the things he had missed. At first he tensed, fearful, but then realized her four-year-old mind didn't register town names as important information to share. Samantha was more reticent after that initial bear hug, racing around the room with her ball and avoiding his eyes. Then, suddenly, like a dam breaking, she scrambled onto the couch, burying her face in his shoulder.   
  
He looked for Branca then, found her standing in the doorway of the kitchen. It took a long period of silent communication before he could breathe again.  
  
The rental house had been hastily filled with Christmas-oriented materials, including a small tree sparsely adorned with a store-bought garland and decorations obviously made by the girls themselves. A bare-bones stereo system played quiet carols, fed diligently by Branca. It was a one-story house with two plain bedrooms, a tidy bed for Holly and the other scrambled by the thrashing limbs of two children. Only the closed curtains in every room seemed unusual. Cut off from the world, the house hovered in an alternate realm of space and time: without the natural indicator of sunlight Creegan couldn't tell if it was day or night, and though the temperature remained chilly, there was no way to orient his geography.   
  
Most of the long day was spent in the kitchen, which quickly lost its aura of sterility when Lily began flinging flour around. The sugar cookies proved to be a disaster: Samantha's were mostly recognizable, but Lily's came out oddly misshapen in the places where she had pinched off a bit of dough to eat. Creegan's were hopeless. But by that time Holly had switched on "Ziggy's Gift," setting out fudge and milk on the coffee table, and the cookies were instantly forgotten.  
  
Sticky, warm, and full, the girls finally fell asleep sandwiched between him and Holly. He watched them instead of the movie, aware of Holly crying very quietly at the other end of the couch, of Branca who stood in the doorway of the kitchen again, and of the tears leaking down his own face at last.  
  
 _My girls._ Asleep, safe, happy. Their heads lay carelessly bunched together. With an effort he looked at Holly. She smiled at him through her tears, and he felt his own salty lips turn upward in response. "How've you been?" he asked quietly.  
  
"Good. You?"  
  
"Good."  
  
Silence fell again. He opened his mouth, searching. All those years ago, they had found each other, fallen deeply in love, married, brought life to these two small human beings, and then lost each other again. And now, there was nothing to say.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Holly," he said lamely at last.  
  
She laughed a little, tired and sad and exasperated and happy. "Merry Christmas, David."

  
They sat without speaking for the rest of the movie. Branca disappeared. Creegan rubbed at his face, feeling the wetness there, and felt sure his heart would combust out of his chest like something in _Alien_. Ziggy saved Christmas, the credits rolled, and Holly got up to switch off the tape. Branca was back, and a quick glance passed between them. Branca had his jacket in her hands.  
  
Creegan glanced at the girls, but they had not awakened. Very carefully, he bent over them, touching their eyelids with light fingers.  
  
"Merry Christmas, angels," he whispered brokenly. "I'll see you in Dreamland."  
  
Then he stood up and forced himself to walk around the coffee table into the kitchen with Branca and Holly.  
  
Branca went directly across the room to the sink and began filling her gray thermos with water. Holly handed him a large manila envelope. "Pictures," she whispered. "Don't worry, I've taken out all the ones that might show where we live." Then to his surprise she stepped forward and kissed his cheek, putting her arms around him tightly. "Thank you for being here, David. Take care of yourself." Then, in a voice so low he alone could hear, she murmured, "And take care of her, too."  
  
Branca switched off the water and Holly moved soundlessly past him back through the door into the living room. _Gone. Again._  
  
The world swung on its axis, but he was ready for it and stood with his damp eyes closed, breathing harshly in his throat. Branca's hand touched his arm, sliding down to grip his fingers in her smaller ones. "C'mon, David," she murmured quietly. "C'mon." He acceded to the gentle pressure, following her blindly across the kitchen. A door opened, and intensely cold air touched his face. Space opened up beneath his outstretched foot, and he reeled, remembering too late the small steps below the door. Branca caught him with one hand at his waist as he started to fall. Without thinking, he put both his arms around her. It was a clumsy action; she was only half-facing him, a few bags and her thermos kept her from reaching back, and their large difference in height forced him to wrap himself around her shoulders. Her body stiffened in surprise, then relaxed by degrees.  
  
They stayed that way for a long time.  
  
"You know," Creegan mumbled, "you're at just the right height for a chin rest."  
  
Branca laughed and pushed at him lightly, stepping away and wiping her face. "Get in the car, Creegan," she instructed, handing him the thermos. "And just sip it this time, okay? You scared me a bit with the chugging."  
  
"Hey," replied Creegan as she moved around to the other side of the car, "it's not Christmas unless I'm chugging alcoholic beverages, crying, and passing out, remember?"  
  
"Oh, yeah, I forgot," Branca groaned, opening her car door and tossing her burdens. "At least you've got pants on, though."  
  
Laughter rolled up out of his constricted chest, and he quickly shut himself into the car to muffle the sound. Branca dropped in beside him as he fumbled with the thermos lid. Eventually he chucked it into her lap, earning an exasperated huff as she repositioned it pointedly on the dashboard. "Cheers," he said, ignoring her protest and taking the first sips of stale-tasting water. Branca responded by chuckling mirthlessly and settling into the driver's seat with her hands rested on a raised knee.  
  
"So," he said, after a pause, "what are your plans for Easter?"  
  
She groaned. "God, I don't know if we can do this again, Creegan. I'm sorry. I used a medically-approved knockout drug, but there's still the chance of side effects or chemical dependency…"  
  
"I know, I know," he interrupted quickly, regretting his joke. "I was kidding. Thank you."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
"No, really." Creegan turned to her in the car. The dim light showed only the faint outline of her head, eyes and lips. "Thank you for this, Susan."  
  
The moment stretched out longer than he intended, and she was the first to look away, reaching out to tap the offending thermos lid with idle fingers. He raised the water to his mouth again and took a long draught.  
  
"Bingham means 'crib,'" Branca said suddenly.  
  
It took a moment to register. Then he set the thermos carefully between his knees. She was looking steadily at the lid, where her fingers were now still.  
  
"That's one meaning," she said slowly, "but apparently it also means 'a kettle-shaped hollow,' whatever the hell that is. I never really liked it. I like Slavic names, like Danya and Bohdan." Her throat jerked. "Michael didn't like them so much, but we finally agreed to call our son Hadeon."  
  
Her voice seemed old, rising up out of some empty grave.   
  
Creegan shivered, and stopped himself from reaching over to touch her. He waited, knowing instinctively this would be the one time, the only time.   
  
"He was stillborn," Branca went on in her ancient, whispery voice. "The umbilical cord wrapped around his neck somehow and choked him to death. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like somebody was cutting a hole in my stomach. Michael wasn't there, he was at an art show in Chicago… he was a painter. I had unplugged the phone next to my bed while I slept; I had to go into the kitchen. I couldn't walk because it hurt so much, so I crawled down the hall on my hands and knees, and he probably died right there on the floor inside me. He was already blue when the doctors took him out." She breathed in raggedly, eyes lost. "I wanted to die with him. I had severe post-partum depression, so when Michael finally came home I begged him to help me kill myself. But I didn't. He did, about six months later."  
  
Her index finger pushed down on the edge of the lid so that it snapped upright. Creegan watched it, seeing the emotion behind that tiny movement. She released it slowly, letting the little piece of plastic rest in peace once more, and withdrew her hand.  
  
"I'm not telling you this because I want your pity. I've never asked for it, and you had better not goddamn give me any." Branca shook her head. A loose ribbon fell into her face. The bow had come out, and she tugged it free from her hair, holding the fabric in both hands and studying it. Then she raised her eyes to his. "Did it ever occur to you, David, that it might bother me, too, if you were miserable? You're my partner, you're my friend, and I love you." She paused a fraction of a second there, as though surprised. Then she went on. "I've seen you watch so many happy domestic scenes, and just for a second there's nothing but desperation on your face. Nothing but pain and loneliness. It wasn't just that family on the crosswalk. It was a kiddie pool you shot, a serial killer in Berkley who honestly loved his kids, and that stupid family who buried the bum they ran over in their yard." She gestured sharply. "Would you like me to go on? There are more, of course. But no matter how twisted they turn out to be, they were all together in their psycho-fuck weirdness, and you weren't." She fixed him with intense eyes. "And every time you feel that, I get to see it. You're terrible at hiding emotions, David, you know that."  
  
Her face was dry. His was not.  
  
She sighed. "If I could bring you back to see Samantha and Lily every weekend, I would. If I could bring you every day, to show you that you aren't alone, I would." The left side of her mouth twitched upward in a wry smile. "But I think my friends in the hospital will start to wonder if I went back asking for an unlimited supply of knockout drugs."   
  
Creegan stared at that smile disbelievingly, trying to see past it.  
  
"So you're just going to have to trust me, okay?" She reached out suddenly and touched his face, a light tap on his cheek, then drew her hand back. "There is nothing like the absence of your child's life. It's the end of breath, of hope, of the future." The tears came, finally, inching down her pale skin. "You don't know it; I do. I'm not belittling your pain, David. But Samantha and Lily are alive. They're inside on a couch asleep, and they'll wake up tomorrow with sick stomachs from eating so much sugar and the memory of your face in their minds. They sing, they play soccer, they go to school and write silly notes in class. And as long as they live, you are and will always be their father. Blood is thicker than water, and it's also thicker than the passing of years or a million miles between. But it is not thicker than death, Creegan." She wiped at her face, then put her hand over her mouth, repeating brokenly through her fingers, "It is never thicker than death."  
  
He wanted to reach out to her – had to reach out to her – but the lethargy surrounding his limbs could not be beaten back. In desperation he dragged one clumsy arm up and managed to slide his hand across to her shoulder, curling weak fingers there. At the touch she turned back to him, and smiled faintly. The smile sent something rocketing through him, shooting down from his mind to bounce around the inside of his chest. A realization, an epiphany that tightened his heart and opened his mouth… but it was gone again, fleeing through the snatching fingers of his sleepy mind. _No, don't forget, don't forget it…_ but it was already gone.   
  
His head dropped back against the headrest and he closed his eyes. "You have to stay with me," he muttered. "So I know… wasn't a dream. You have to stay." _So_ _I can remember what it was about you that I just saw._  
  
"I'll stay, Creegan." Her disembodied voice floated around his head, comforting his ears with its soft syllables. "I always stay."


	4. ...And the One Who Survived.

**Chapter Three: …And the One Who Survived**  
  
Creegan woke up before she did and sat watching her. In the gray light of a cloudy morning, she was even lighter in color than usual. Her Eastern European heritage showed clearly, spread over her pale skin and delicate build. She was folded up, squished tightly into the corner of her seat where the shoulder harness hung with both knees propped against the edge of the steering wheel.

 

A few college-aged youngsters, suffering severe post-Christmas hangovers, staggered through puddles in the motel's parking lot. Besides their jerky movements, the world was still. Here and there remnants of the holiday hung loose, dangling idly in that dead stretch of time between Christmas and New Year's Eve.  
  
 _There was something,_ Creegan thought fiercely, _that I was supposed to remember._ It was there, hovering just above his brain, while he hopped up and down below reaching towards it with waving arms. Making up his mind, he reached across and tugged the keys from the ignition, nudging her leg. Branca awoke with a startled jerk and squinted her eyes uncertainly against the murky light.  
  
"Morning," he said. "Merry Day-After-Christmas. At least, I think it is. How long did your magic roofie knock me out? Are there flying cars yet?"  
  
Confusion faded to comprehension and she chuckled weakly. "Good morning, Creegan." The last syllable ended in a yawn. "What time is it?"  
  
"The hell should I know? You're the one with the watch and the ability to read it."  
  
She shot him a Look, and inwardly he danced a jig as she tilted her slender wrist up towards her face. "God," she muttered, "it's only nine o'clock." Wriggling upright, she dropped her legs onto the floor and winced.  
  
"What's wrong?"  
  
"Nothing… my legs are asleep." She rubbed at them, grinning crookedly. "Can't feel them at all."  
  
 _Good work, boys._ "Well, then you obviously shouldn't be driving. Come on inside, you can get some sleep in my room."  
  
That brought her startled eyes up. She eyed him awkwardly for a few seconds. "No, no, that's okay." She faltered, then visibly gathered herself and said in a stronger voice, "Thanks anyways. But I think I can manage to get home from here." Her mouth ticked upward at the corner.  
  
He measured the pause, then announced, "Too bad, I've got the car keys," and got out.  
  
It took her a few seconds.  
  
Her car door opened as he rounded the front of the vehicle, striding towards the stairs. "Creegan!" she shouted, stepping out. As her feet hit the pavement, her uncooperative legs folded and she caught at the door, pulling an awful face. Through force of will, she locked her knees and stood upright, glaring at him. She was still hanging onto the car door, though.  
  
"Yes?" he responded innocently.  
  
She recognized his look and her glower intensified. "It's nine o'clock in the morning. I've been driving all night. I really do not want to play this game right now."  
  
"Agent Branca, I'm not playing any game," he explained patiently. "It's nine o'clock in the morning, you've been driving all night, and you can barely stand up. You are obviously in no condition to drive. I'm sorry, but I am deeply concerned for your well-being, and the safety of every other driver and pedestrian on the roadways. I would imagine a woman of your intelligence would recognize that."  
  
"Give me the keys," she snarled, taking a step towards him.  
  
Thinking fast, he reached down, pulled out his waistband, and dropped the keys down the front of his pants. Then he yelped as cold metal landed against particularly sensitive warm skin.   
  
Branca froze in her tracks and eyed the keys' resting place.  
  
"Try it," he informed her, struggling to suppress the urge to hop around, "and I'll scream 'rape'. There's still a roofie in my system, you know. Wouldn't that be a funny thing to explain to Enright?"  
  
She scowled and put her hands on her hips, but made no move towards his crotch. "Are you going to keep them in there all day?"  
  
He mirrored her movement, resting knuckles on his hip bones. "I can wait as long as you. So either you come inside and sleep in one of the relatively clean motel beds I have waiting, or prepare to get very familiar with mini-Dave."  
  
It didn't take Branca long to make up her mind. Still scowling, she stepped sideways and slammed the car door viciously. "All right," she snapped, "but you are _washing_ those keys before handing them back to me, understood? If you don't, mini-Dave and I are gonna get very familiar, and I don't think either one of you will like it."  
  
They both walked stiffly; Branca's legs were slow to awaken, and the car keys were equally reluctant to warm. It didn't help that Creegan's room was on the second level. By the time they both made it up the stairs he was seriously questioning the wisdom of this. The door opened and they stumbled into his chilly, dark abode. He rushed to turn on the heat.  
  
"God, Creegan," Branca moaned, collapsing on the right-hand bed. "Why the hell do you live here? Why not get an apartment?"  
  
Creegan cranked the temperature up to seventy and sighed in relief as it roared to life. "If I lived in an apartment," he replied, snaking a hand down the front of his pants and rooting around, "I would eventually disappear under a tidal wave of misplaced clothing and empty peanut shells. The manager comes and cleans every morning. It's cheaper than maid service. Ah." He fished the keys out and held them up for her inspection. "Let's just keep these unwashed and filthy for a while. Don't want you sneaking off to endanger a school bus full of nuns, do we?"  
  
She gave The Finger and peeled off her damp jacket. "I'm getting four hours of sleep," she announced, dropping her jacket on the floor and leaning over to examine the digital alarm clock resting on a small table between the two beds. "If you're not already awake by then, I'm kicking you out of bed to wash those things."  
  
While she fiddled with the clock dials, he dumped the keys on a nearby dresser, reached under the left-hand bed, and drew out a package. Kicking his shoes off, he stepped onto the bed and dropped down onto the opposite edge, bouncing to a stop with the present extended at arm's length. Branca jerked her head backward and examined the twisted mess of wrapping paper and Scotch tape.  
  
"What," she inquired doubtfully, "is that?"  
  
"Your present, numbnuts. Merry Christmas. You'll have to forgive its tardiness, but I was drugged at the time."  
  
She gave an equally cautious laugh, taking the small parcel gingerly in her fingers and turning it over and over. "Wrapped this yourself?"  
  
"Naturally."  
  
"Ah." She frowned at it. "Um, where exactly should I start?"  
  
He gave a loud sigh of impatience, snatched it from her, tore a chunk of paper off, and handed it back. Pushing back the ragged edges, Branca peered down into the bundle's depths. Then she glanced back up at him, surprised.   
  
"It's a friendship circle," he said as she pulled the oddly-shaped black statue free from its wrapping. "It's from Africa or something." He didn't blame her for being puzzled: it had taken him a full minute of staring before his brain could comfortably trace over the intricate, intersecting lines. The small carving consisted of three figures standing in a circle, one larger reaching down, one smaller reaching up, and one medium-sized who extended its touch in both directions. Their faces and bodies were smooth and featureless, mere outlines in dark stone. Where their reaching arms met, they joined and ran together, so that it was impossible to tell where one figure began and the other ended.  
  
"It's beautiful."  
  
"Really?" he asked, watching her face.  
  
She cast him a glance of mock contempt. "No, I'm lying, it's hideous." Then she softened. "Thank you, Creegan. Really, I think it's beautiful." She was telling the truth, too: the careful way she set it on the table spoke volumes of her appreciation. "I'm sorry I haven't got any present for you to rip open."  
  
"Oh, Jesus, Branca," he groaned, "after yesterday I owe you presents for ten years."  
  
She laughed, leaning her elbows on her knees and pressing her palms together. "I might hold you to that," she declared, smiling. Her face was tired and drawn, but undeniably content.  
  
 _You're beautiful, like the night sky is beautiful, like birds in flight are beautiful._  
  
"Get some sleep, Branca. You look like hell."  
  
The reply was an exasperated roll of her eyes and another glimpse of her middle finger. But the comforter and sheet were peeled back, her shoes were kicked off, and she flopped down, wriggling under the covers.

-o-  
  
It was a full hour later when her breath deepened and became a mild snore that he dared to sit up.  
  
 _She snores._ That little tidbit was gleefully tucked away for future use. Her sleeping body was entire covered with thick blankets, right up to her chin. One slim hand had slipped out, however, and its narrow fingers curled upward, twitching every now and then in her dream state. A few inches away, her peculiar Christmas present rested in its never-ending circle.  
  
Creegan watched the hand and the face. His mind, rested by drugged sleep, went to work.  
  
 _It came when she had smiled._  
  
In the cold place on the other side of the moon where his girls lived, she'd told him a story. It was the story of a man and a woman and the child who died. Hadeon. Creegan glanced at the African statue. The smallest figure raised its pleading limbs upward. A son who died. For a moment he was overwhelmed, imagining her desperate, agonized crawl for help that came too late. Then he forcibly brushed it aside and refocused. Her son was dead, buried, and so was her fiancé, the mysterious Michael. She'd mentioned him once before, he recalled suddenly. Eight months ago, she'd blurted out his painful suicide, driven by the betrayal of Journalist Prick. _Laney_. Creegan's lip curled automatically. There was not enough contempt in the world for Laney, as far as he was concerned. The fucking leech had allowed a serial killer to strangle women, and for what? For recognition? Jesus, why couldn't he have gone out and spray-painted his initials on the side of a water tower instead? Then he'd gone after Branca, had pushed all of his self-loathing in her face, trying to embrace her with his misery. _Prick. Prick. You didn't deserve the ground she walks on; why should love require destruction? That's some kind of Romeo and Juliet bullshit, 'the only love is pain' and you're so wrapped up in your own misery you can't see past your own dick, just like Krakauer…_  
  
He twitched.  
  
After a few moments, he slowly, carefully, followed that.  
  
Krakauer had self-destructed, too, leaving behind a hospital-bound baby daughter and a grim, ghostly wife. Creegan had seen her, once, at the arraignment. She'd sat in the first bench on the defendant's side, an empty woman still heavy with the extra weight of pregnancy. When Krakauer had entered a guilty plea and accepted twenty years with the smug stoicism of a martyr, his wife had closed her dead eyes and walked out of the courtroom without a word.  
  
Creegan's mind jerked, and suddenly there was a different courtroom, a different defendant, and a different woman. _Atkins_ , he thought, and a shudder passed over his skin. The man who had come so perilously close to his girls. But he was gone now, in jail for arson and attempted murder. He'd accepted his sentence calmly as well, his body the withered husk of grief. And behind him, his wife had stared with uncomprehending, hateful eyes, cheeks streaked with tears.  
  
 _Atkins. Krakauer. Laney. Michael.  
  
And those they left behind, who bear the pain they were too weak to carry._  
  
It was coming, slowly. The first two were unimportant, merely a part of the pattern his half-conscious mind had recognized last night. But the last two had something else in common besides bloody self-destruction: Branca.  
  
Her fingers moved slightly. She sighed in her sleep.  
  
He thought, _You, Laney and Michael, you escaped. You were too weak and cowardly to face what life brought you, so you gave up and left your burdens to this one, solitary woman, who you were supposed to love and protect. You let her bear your deaths, hell, you inflicted them on her, and for who, for what? You were on your way out, why cause her agony? To exact some revenge on the world through her? You left her to clean up your messes, to wipe up the blood and bury the bodies.  
  
And she had._  
  
 ** _And she had._**  
  
Oh, _Jesus_.  
  
It arrived in a rush of heartbeat and emotion. She was here, she had not broken under the tremendous weight of three dead bodies – maybe more? – she had survived. She lay in peaceful sleep, breathing deeply.  
  
She lived. Quietly, without high drama or flailing agony that demanded public recognition of grief. She inflicted herself on no one – ' _I'm not telling you this because I want your pity'_ , she'd said to him, and he believed her now. She'd buried the bodies and lived.  
  
 _'I'll stay Creegan. I always stay.'_

-o-  
  
He sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed for a long time after that.  
  
Then he lay down, stirring only to reach out once and touch the blank face of the middle figure in the ringed statue. 

  
  
  
_"It's a pleasure to share one's memories.  
Everything remembered is dear, endearing, touching, precious.   
At least the past is safe - though we didn't know it at the time.   
We know it now.   
Because it's in the past;   
**because we have survived."**   
-Susan _ _So_ _ntag_

 


End file.
